Tale of a Mage
by Jack Storm 448
Summary: Magic; the power to manipulate reality itself. But to one mage-boy, blessed with extraordinary magical abilities, but cursed to spend his life on the run, magic only leads to death. Will he escape his fate, or be forced to confront it; enter the land of Wesnoth, and find out. Based (loosely) on the game The Battle for Wesnoth, but highly self-explanatory. {RE-WRITTEN}
1. Introduction

**Publisher's note: This is a little story I've wanted to do for some time now; hopefully, even all you people who've never heard of The Battle for Wesnoth will find this story interesting. It will be somewhat more serious than my other works, the Rising Storm books, but it should be fun nonetheless.  
**

**Also, here is a link to a map of Wesnoth; I suggest that you load it up while you read, just to give you an idea of what's going on. Thank you for your time; constructive criticisms are welcome.**

** wiki dot Wesnoth dot org/Geography_of_Wesnoth**

* * *

Excerpt: Royal Wesnothian Archives

Author: Unknown

Date of entry: 938 AF  


* * *

This is the story of, well we'll get to that in a minute.

The primary purpose of this record is to keep future generations of Magi from falling into the trap of ignorance. Considering recent events however, I must also consider the possibility that this may be read by those unfamiliar with Wesnothian history and lore. Therefore I shall provide a 'brief' introduction; in other words, there will be nothing brief about it. Even if you think you know all there is to know about Wesnoth, you might consider reading this prologue anyway; you might learn some things you never knew. But if it's just to much to take in, don't worry; I'll refresh you on the important points as they come up in the story.

Speaking of the story, it takes place on a planet much like Earth, known as Irdya, which remains to this day at the technological level of Earth's Medieval Age. More specifically, our story takes place in a Human kingdom known as Wesnoth. However, the story really begins two-hundred years before the kingdom of Wesnoth was founded, when the humans living on an island known as The Green Isle were attacked by the Lich-Lords; ancient beings possessing powerful Necromantic magic, who had fled from a continent to the far west after losing a war there.

After a long and bloody war with the Isle-Folk, the Lich-Lords were defeated once again and forced almost to extinction. Defeat did not sit well with them however, and in a fit of desperation they opened a magic portal to the homeland of the Orcs; a vaguely humanoid race, but far stronger and more resilient than the race of men, and with highly warlike dispositions.

In no time the Green Isle was completely overrun with Orcs, and the King of the Isle-Folk, Haldric the First, was forced to abandon the Isle as lost and lead his people in a mass evacuation to a major continent to the South-East.

When the settlers arrived on the Great Continent, they were immediately greeted by the two races currently inhabiting it. The Elves; a tall and graceful race with an affinity for nature, and possessing powerful magic in addition to super-human strength and dexterity. And the Dwarves; a short but incredibly strong race, which lived mainly in underground tunnels.

The Elves and Dwarves were currently at odds with each other, and neither side trusted the newly landed humans; however, Haldric eventually proved his worth to the Ka'lian and they granted the human settlers a plot of land on which to live. After a member of the Ka'lian referred to the humans as 'West-Northians' because of the direction from which they came to the Great Continent, Haldric founded a new Human kingdom and dubbed it 'Wesnoth'.

The Kingdom of Wesnoth grew and prospered for nearly eighteen-hundred years, until the arrogance of the human king at that time led to him commanding the Mages, men and women who studied the art of magic, to raise an artificial second and third sun into the sky to lengthen the days and shorten the nights.

The creation of the second sun, Naia, was an unprecedented success; when the Mages tried to raise the third sun into the sky however, they failed and the third sun crashed down onto Weldyn, the capital city of Wesnoth. This, and the events that followed, would later be referred to as 'The Fall'.

The impact of the third sun caused a massive cataclysm which nearly destroyed all life on the Great Continent; that, coupled with the merciless rays of the twin suns, reduced the entire continent to a barren wasteland. The sentient races were reduced to fighting among each other for what few natural resources still remained. However, after centuries of the ceaseless struggle for survival, the few remaining human Mages finally devised a way to remove the second sun from the sky; this heralded in an era of restoration all across the Great Continent, as the scorched earth slowly began to turn green again.

It took another two centuries but, between the Mages and Elven spell-casters, Wesnoth and surrounding lands were eventually restored to their former glory. During that time old alliances were renewed and strengthened; but not all returned to the way it had been. The new Wesnoth would eventually become just as great a kingdom as its predecessor, but the Fall had changed its face forever; and not entirely for the worse.

For the first time in millennia, the people of Wesnoth chose their new King by democratic processes; a former desert Ranger by the name of Dyrcen, who had led raids into the desert to find food for the people during last years of the Fall. He cared deeply for his fellow man and he was much loved by all for his bravery and compassion; he had a long and prosperous reign, and led Wesnoth into a new Golden Age. Every King of Wesnoth after him has striven to uphold his legacy of kindness towards all.

But there were more striking changes made during the Fall; the study of Magic had advanced by leaps and bounds in many fields, and Mages were discovered to be a genetically different species than humans. This discovery led eventually to the Mages separating themselves from humans, and establishing new communities of their own. They set up a High Council of their own to rule them and became a Vassal State; independent but still under the jurisdiction of Wesnoth. The king didn't try to stop them, for obvious reasons, and the arrangement has held since then with only slight modifications to the terms.

Among other notable changes are the discovery of, and alliance with, the Drakes; lesser cousins of Dragons and resembling them greatly, except that Drakes stand on two legs and walk as humans do. Hailing from an island to the South of the Great Continent, they pushed North to combat overpopulation and received a less than warm welcome from the Wesnothians. After a few years of tenuous truce however, Wesnoth agreed to let the Drakes join the Alliance of the Free Races; which at that point contained Elves, Dwarves, and humans.

Another new race was the Dúnedain; an especially hardy race of humans who fled from the west after their former home, a large island, sank as a result of the Fall. Arriving on the Great Continent during the peak of the Fall, they made their home in the high Northern Mountains and thrived in the harsh conditions. They rarely came down from the mountains except to ask to be left alone and, since the Dúnedain were highly skilled and dangerous warriors, Wesnoth happily complied.

Now, you might be wondering; what exactly is magic? The truth of the matter is, that question has taken scholars their entire lives to unravel, and I do not have time to explain it here. What I will say is this. There is an extra-dimensional energy coursing throughout all of reality, known as the Mana Field; if you have trouble visualizing this, think 'The Force'. Now, certain species of beings can sense, and interact with the Mana Field. Mages use their bodies and minds as conduits for Mana Energy, channelling it into the physical world, and using it to reshape reality around them to their liking.

If you think that this is too much power for any individual to possess, you would be forgiven; however, magic is not as easy as it seems at first glance. The first rule of magic, that every novice has hammered into his head on the first day at any academy of magic; magic always has a price.

With the exception of some exotic spells, the price of magic is usually exacted from the caster's body, in the form of energy; when Mana passes through a mage's body to enter the physical world, the sheer amount of energy passing through the caster's body all at once puts immense strain on the caster's Aura.

Aura is basically the energy of life itself; all living organisms have it. Some creatures, even humans with the proper training, can see and manipulate their own Aura or even another's; this energy usually takes on a bright blue color to the naked eye. However, to someone trained in its use, a person's Aura glows different colors in accordance to that person's emotions.

I will likely discuss Mana and Aura in more detail later, but for now I hope that you have a rough idea of what they both are. The reason I brought up the subject of Aura in the first place, is that magical and Auric energies do not mix well; the two energies resonate on completely different wavelengths, so when they meet in their raw forms, they repel on another. Almost always, the Mana forces it's way through the caster's Aura, but during this process a fraction of the caster's Aura is chipped away; you can probably guess why this is dangerous. If your life-force is completely expended, you die; painfully.

When a Mage becomes more attuned to the Mana Field their Aura also begins to resonate better with Mana; the strain decreases and the Mage can channel more Mana at once, and thus can cast more powerful spells. However, if a Mage tries to channel too much Mana, the strain between Aura and Mana can literally burn him to ashes.

If you've survived this far, you now know more about the history of Wesnoth, and magic, than most Wesnothian children learn in school; but this prologue has still only covered what you need to know up front to understand this story. I will flesh out specific topics more as the story progresses, to help you keep up. Equipped with this knowledge, feel free to progress to the beginning of the story; where a young Mage-boy is running for his life.


	2. Chapter 1

It was a dark and cloudy night in Weldyn, the capital of Wesnoth; a perfect night on which to escape the city, and that's exactly what was to happen. Unfortunately, sneaking out of Weldyn turned out to be quite a bit harder than it seemed on paper.

"Halt," commanded the captain of the night-watchmen. "Identify yourself, and state your intent."

The boy nonchalantly turned to face the interrupting patrol. He was around eighteen years of age, stood just shy of six feet tall, and was built like a predatory cat; lithe, muscular, and constantly ready to pounce. He had stormy grey eyes, a ragged bird's nest of jet-black hair, and vaguely pointed ears. A bulging cloth sack was slung over his right shoulder, but he carried it as lightly as if it were empty.

The boy was wearing a loose-fitting cloth tunic and trousers, with nothing on his feet. Around his shoulders was a mottled brown cloak with a bronze star embroidered on the right shoulder; the mark of a Journeyman Mage. Mages who preferred studying the world first-hand, as opposed to simply reading books all day, were given the title 'Journeyman' and sent out into the world to learn as much as possible; many of the most powerful Mages in history had chosen to follow the path of the journeyman. But even Journeyman Mages weren't allowed to leave the city after nightfall, due to the influx of bandits in the area, and the boy knew this full well.

"My name is Karazin Dusk-walker," he said. "I'm just out for a walk; to get some fresh air and all that."

The patrol, consisting of the captain and five men wielding long Pikes, surreptitiously surrounded him; apparently, they didn't believe him.

"Young man," the captain said, his tone vaguely threatening, "Are you aware of Weldyn's curfew? No one is allowed to enter or leave the city after dark."

"Oh, I'm well aware of it," Karazin said, his face completely neutral, "I just don't care."

The captain was slightly taken aback at Karazin's blatant disregard for the law; he was expecting some sort of excuse, outright hostility maybe, or at least some sign of fear or doubt, but this boy seemed completely relaxed in the face of six highly trained warriors. He had an air of confidence around him; as though he was saying _'Why should I care? I could take you all out without half trying'_. The captain almost believed him. They looked each other in the eyes, and the heavily armed, highly trained warrior found himself getting quite nervous about the strange young Mage.

"Well then," the captain said, shrugging aside his doubts, "I'm afraid you'll have to come with me."

"No."

Without any further warning, the boy jumped almost ten feet into the air; sailing clean over the ring of warriors and hitting the ground running. It would have worked too, if they had been anyone other than Royal Wesnothian Guardsmen; as it was, it would take more than a parlour trick like that to catch them by surprise. The moment the boy's foot touched the ground again, it was knocked out from under him by the back end of a pike. The boy landed face-first, and skidded a few feet before coming to rest.

_"No!" _he thought to himself. _"This was my last chance; I can't fail, I can't! If I don't escape now..."_

He didn't finish that thought, but instead took off running before the guards could surround him again. If the elite guards of Weldyn had one weakness, it was that their armour impeded their ability to run; although comparing his speed to theirs wasn't really fair. After all, they were only human.

Karazin ran full-tilt through the city to the outer wall; he'd originally planned to slip by the guards at the main gate, but the patrol he'd run into back there would have already raised the alarm. He'd just have to go to plan B then, the wall itself. The Wall of Weldyn was one of the greatest man-made fortresses of the age; about a hundred and fifty feet tall and more than fifty feet thick, made of four-foot cubic blocks of granite, and as sheer as a plum-line. But if he couldn't slip through the gate, Karazin would have to climb the wall.

Arriving at the foot of the wall, which then more resembled a small mountain, Karazin was struck by a sudden wave of doubt; to climb the Wall of Weldyn was considered next to impossible and for a normal human it would be, but even for him it would test the limits of his endurance. It would be another matter if he could use magic, but...

_"You can't stop now," _Karazin told himself. _"If _She_ catches you, it's all over; so just shut up and climb!"_

Karazin opened his pack and pulled out two iron hooks, the kind used by the elite assassins of the far east for climbing wall just like these. With the climbing hooks in hand Karazin began making his way up the wall, finding foot and hook-holds in the cracks between the stone blocks; he knew undue speed would result in someone noticing him, so he worked with agonizing slowness. Every second felt like an eternity, and he constantly dreaded hearing a cry of alarm that would indicate he'd been spotted; as he climbed further up the wall, he expected that cry more and more. How could someone not notice him? It was inevitable! He wanted to climb as quickly as he could, to get out of there before he was discovered, but he knew if he did it would be his undoing. Wait, what was that sound; had he been seen? He had to go faster, but he couldn't go faster; what should he do?!

Then, he was on top of the wall; no one had seen him. In fact, it seemed there was no-one around to see him; all the guards must have flocked to the gate when the alarm sounded. Well, why shouldn't they? After all, climbing the wall was suicide! And yet there he was; muscles burning, heart racing, lungs heaving, and bruised all over, but he'd done it. What's more, he'd done it without magic; if he could do all that without using magic, maybe this was was possible after all.

_"Don't get ahead of yourself," _he thought. _"After all, you still have to climb down."_

Karazin looked down and cringed; it looked even higher now that he was up here. Still, now was no time to quit. Steeling his nerves, Karazin began lowering himself down the wall with as much care as he'd taken climbing up it; it wouldn't do to be caught halfway down, but for some reason the prospect didn't frighten him as much as it had on the way up.

With a sigh of relief, Karazin lowered himself onto to solid ground; no one would even know he was gone until dawn, and by then he intended to be as far away as possible. He was planning to cross the Great River, which served as Wesnoth's Northern border; it was a wide and fast-flowing river, and the Northlands beyond it were wild, untamed, and most importantly outside of Wesnothian control. The only people who lived there were Elves who kept to their forests, Dwarves who kept to their caves, Orcs who wouldn't care about a single traveller, and human bandits who wouldn't pose much of a threat as long as he kept his head down.

The only safe place to cross it was the Ford of Abez to the North, North-West. He couldn't go there now though, _She _will have undoubtedly told the garrison there to watch for him. Fortunately though, Karazin knew another crossing-point; it would be difficult and dangerous without magic, but not impossible. In fact, when compared to climbing the Wall of Weldyn, it was a relatively simple task. The best part, _She _didn't know about about it; it was known only by a select few people, and he'd interrogated one of them himself.

The hidden ford was to the North-East of Weldyn, just past a northern border post named Soradoc; to get there, he'd have to follow the River Weldyn North-East for several days. It seemed simple on paper, but Karazin knew from experience that things were seldom as easy as they seemed on paper; he knew that following the River Weldyn would lead him through bandit-infested hills, and confrontation was all but inevitable. Hopefully though, if he made enough of an impression on the first group that waylaid him, the rest would take a hint and steer clear of him from then on.

_"What are you doing standing around?"_ he asked himself. _"If you don't get moving, you'll never get to Soradoc."_

"True enough," he mumbled.

After stowing his climbing hooks in his pack, Karazin brought out a small compass and, by the light of the phosphorescent fluid within, plotted a course North-East to join the River Weldyn. Once he'd decided his course, he set off at a brisk pace; not wanting to waste the coolness of the night. It was, he noticed against his will, a good night for travelling; the clouds above threatened rain by morning, but the air was crisp and cool. And even if it did rain, Mage-cloaks such as his were made to be water-resistant. He'd make good progress that night, and stop for a quick breakfast at dawn.

* * *

The journey to Soradoc was, as Karazin expected, quite a bit harder than he anticipated. He couldn't afford to follow any man-made trails, for fear of being caught, so he was forced the forge his own path. The River Weldyn helped keep him going in the right direction, but it was also a roundabout rout that cut through some fairly treacherous terrain; swamps and hills mostly. Still, his journey went uninterrupted for two days. He stopped to set up a makeshift camp at sundown, including a few small traps for rabbits, and nets for fish in the river, resuming his trek as soon as the sun rose again; he also took a brief pause for his midday meal, supplementing what few provisions he'd brought with him from Weldyn with whatever game or fish he caught overnight.

Karazin knew that the peace and quiet couldn't last forever; the closer he got to the border the safer he'd be from _H__er_, but the more likely he was to run into bandits, or maybe even rogue Orcs. The Northlands were only safe in comparison, although more so for him. However, even he was surprised at how quickly he encountered trouble.

On the morning of the third day of his journey Karazin checked his traps, ate a quick breakfast, broke camp, and was on his way by the seventh hour. Before long he'd entered a section of low, rocky hills along the river; an inconvenience, but not a major obstacle. He didn't get far into them however, before he caught sight of figure sitting on a small boulder.

As he got closer, Karazin saw that the figure was a man; fairly tall and muscular, with blue eyes and a ragged shock of dirty blond hair. He was wearing thin brown wool trousers with leather greaves, scuffed leather gloves and boots, and a light leather tunic; all of which looked like they'd had better days. What caught Karazin's attention though was the battered, but well kept, steel longsword loosely strapped to the man's hip.

"Hey there traveller," the man called with a grin, jumping lightly down from the boulder. "Where are you headed?"

"North," Karazin said shortly; either this man was a highwayman, or Karazin was a long-eared bandicoot.

The man whistled softly. "That's a hard road; lots o' things could happen to a kid like you up in the Northlands. Especially now..."

"Now what?" Karazin asked, his curiosity piqued.

The man shook his head. "Nothin', just a rumour. Still, rumours or no, the North is no place for a kid travelling alone; there's bandits in these hills you know."

"You don't say," Karazin said dryly. "Look, if you're going to rob me just get it over with."

The man laughed at that; a deep, honest laugh, which didn't do much to dispel Karazin's doubts.

"Now why would I do that?" he said, gaining an expression of injured dignity. "I'm just an honest man who doesn't want to see a young man like yourself get beat up by bandits, or ripped to shreds by wild beasts."

"And your point is?" Karazin said, raising an eyebrow in a show of scepticism.

"My point is," the man said, his grin returning, "I'd like to offer my services as a bodyguard, to help you get to wherever you're goin'. For a small fee, of course."

Now it was Karazin's turn to laugh a little. "A small fee? I thought you said you weren't going to rob me?"

The man shrugged. "Just a little silver; enough to put a hot meal in my stomach, and maybe warm cloak around my shoulders."

Karazin shook his head. "Sorry, but I need what little I've got."

Karazin moved to walk past, but the man stepped to the side to block his path.

"You don't understand," the man said, his grin gone. "You don't know what you're gettin' yourself into; it's dangerous 'round these parts, and I don't want to see you get hurt."

"Neither do I; now get out of my way."

The man planted his feet. "No."

Karazin sighed. "Fine then; if that's how you want it."

Without further warning Karazin reached down to his hip and drew his sword, which had previously been concealed by his cloak. He planned to cut the sword from the man's belt, just to teach him a lesson, but his blade was intercepted before it had got within two feet of its target; Karazin's eyes grew wide as he realized that the man had already drawn his sword, and effortlessly parried Karazin's stroke with it.

Karazin quickly withdrew his sword and settled into a combat stance; the man did the same and the two circled each other waiting for the other to make a move, or a mistake. Eventually, it was the older man who made this mistake; momentarily losing his balance on the uneven, rocky terrain. Karazin exploited the momentary hole in the man's defences, and threw a quick stab at his opponent.

The man recovered quickly and parried the strike, and then launched a rapid volley of short front and back-hand slashes, relentlessly battering at Karazin's defences and forcing him to block, parry, or dodge rather than launching an attack of his own. Up until that point, Karazin had been fighting within the realms of human capabilities; but the man was proving to be a far more skilful swordsman than Karazin anticipated.

With a strength and speed that was quite obviously inhuman, Karazin whipped his sword up in a scything stroke which knocked his opponent's blade up and away. In that same motion, Karazin ruthlessly slashed downwards at the man's unguarded neck. He couldn't afford to show mercy to an enemy this strong, even if he wanted to.

The blow never landed; at the last second the man twisted his entire torso, allowing the incoming blade to flash past him with no more than a inch of distance between them. Not meeting the expected resistance, Karazin lost his balance and stumbled forward; before he could regain his footing, his sword was knocked out of his hand and tossed several feet out of his reach, and his feet were knocked out from under him.

Karazin caught himself before his face hit the ground, but his hands and knees were pretty well scraped by the rocks.

_"Memo to me," _Karazin thought to himself. _"Next time you escape, bring gloves."_

Karazin looked up, prepared to be robbed at sword-point, but instead saw that the man had already sheathed his sword. To Karazin's even greater surprise, the man then extended a hand to help him up. Karazin took the proffered hand tentatively, and the man hauled him to his feet.

"Why?" Karazin asked.

The swordsman shrugged, his smile returning; although to Karazin, it now seemed warmer and more kind somehow. "Like I said; I'm an honest man."

"I haven't met many honest men," Karazin said solemnly.

The swordsman's smile grew sad. "Aye, they're an endangered species to be sure. Still, I've known a few; and some of them paid dearly for their honesty."

The swordsman held out his hand again, this time for a handshake. "The name's Conan O'Neill; I'm from the North, if you couldn't tell from my accent. People 'round here seem to find it entertaining."

"I'm Karazin Dusk-walker," he replied, shaking Conan's hand, "It's a pleasant surprise to meet an honest man, especially here of all places."

"Aye," Conan agreed. "And it's a pleasant surprise for me to find such a skilled young swordsman here of all places. Speaking of which..."

Conan walked over to where Karazin's sword had landed and picked it up.

"This is an interesting sword you've got here," Conan said, giving a few practice swings. "I've never seen one like it."

It really was a strange sword by Wesnothian standards. In fact, it was made in the style of the far east; more than two and half feet in length and a little more than an inch in width, double-edged, straight as an arrow, and only tapering at the very end to a point. The hilt was wood wrapped in sturdy leather, ended in a small steel pommel cap, and transitioned into the blade with a small wing-like cross-guard inlaid with gold leaf. What really called attention to the blade though, was the colour; the entire blade was a light blue, and shimmered slightly in the sunlight as though it were being viewed under-water.

The reason for this, was that blade of Karazin's sword was made of Mersteel; a metalloid substance produced by certain deep-sea corals as a protective exoskeleton. Mersteel, once properly smelted and tempered, was stronger and harder than steel while being slightly lighter as well; a blade made of Mersteel could cut through almost any armour. Although the corals from which it was harvested only produced a few millimetres each year, making it rather scarce resource.

"I got it from an old friend," Karazin told him. "It's saved my life several times now."

Conan nodded and handed the sword back Karazin. "'Tis a good blade indeed; you'd do well to take good care of it."

Karazin took the sword with a gesture of gratitude, and deftly slid it back into its sheath.

"Thanks," he said. "I'll be sure to remember that. Oh, and before I forget, what did you mean by 'rumours' before?"

Conan folded his arms across his chest. "Well, I don't know much about it either way, but word is spreadin' like wildfire; they say Fort Soradoc has been burned to the ground."


	3. Chapter 2

"What?!" Karazin exclaimed. "How is that possible."

"Like I said," Conan said, "I don't know; I don't even know if it's true at all. All I really know is that people think it is; bandits and rogue Orcs have been crossing the Great River in droves. It's open season on unsuspecting travellers from here to the Grey Woods; that's why I thought you could use some protection."

Karazin leaned against a boulder. "Well, I certainly hope it's a rumour; it would take an army to take Fort Soradoc. And to take it without the garrison even sending a scout to Weldyn for help, they must have been taken completely by surprise; I don't like that, it just doesn't seem right."

"You seem fairly well-informed," Conan observed.

Karazin didn't answer, but instead just started walking.

"Where are you going?" Conan asked.

Karazin turned to the swordsman. "To see if those rumours are true; are you coming?"

Conan cocked his head curiously. "Sorry, what?"

Karazin smirked. "I asked if you were coming; also, I trust your rates are reasonable?"

Conan looked at the young man for a second, then broke out into that same deep laughter. "Aye, that they are; depending on how much trouble you get us into, that is."

Conan walked around behind a large boulder, and came back into view carrying a large, sturdy-looking cloth pack; Karazin assumed it contained various supplies for travelling. As Conan turned to him however, he noticed something else strapped onto the swordsman's back; something long and narrow, wrapped in more sturdy cloth. Karazin knew a sword when he saw one; but from the size of the bundle, even providing it was in a sheath, it looked to be longer than most swords Karazin had ever seen. A meter and a half at least. What made Karazin curious though was that the sword Conan had used against him, a standard-issue longsword, was still slung at his hip.

"So, 'Boss'," Conan said. "Shall we go?"

Karazin filed his suspicions away for later. "Indeed we shall."

* * *

The rest of journey to Soradoc was refreshingly uneventful; two people are travelling together are, apparently, less likely to be attacked than someone travelling alone. Or it might also have been the fact that one of them was carrying not one, but two swords. Things like that also tended to dissuade bandits.

Their routine was much the same as it was when Karazin was still travelling alone; in fact, Karazin was a little surprised at how easily Conan handled the rigorous schedule. Most humans wouldn't be able to maintain such a pace for more than a day or two; and yet on the sixth day of the journey, the fourth since Conan had joined it, the swordsman was just as vigorous as the day Karazin met him.

Over the duration of the journey, Karazin and Conan didn't talk much about their personal lives; neither asked any questions, and neither of them would have answered any. They were on friendly enough terms, but neither really trusted the other; respected yes, the kind of respect given to a skilled opponent, but not trusted. Karazin especially was loath to trust the older swordsman; he couldn't shake the suspicion that if Conan ever found out who he was, he'd turn him over to _her_.

So by the time Fort Soradoc rose into view above a hill, Karazin was doubting whether it was a good idea to enlist Conan after all. But when he caught his first glimpse of Fort Soradoc in the distance, Conan was suddenly the last thing on his mind. A plume of smoke was rising from the fortress-city, and that was never a good sign.

When he saw the smoke, Karazin took off at a breakneck pace towards the source. As he got closer, the signs became more obvious; the putrid stench of rotting flesh permeated the air, and there were carrion birds everywhere. Although, Karazin noticed that the birds seemed to be keeping their distance from the fort itself; a grim suspicion formed in his mind, and he desperately hoped he was wrong.

Not even bothering to see if Conan was behind him, Karazin ran up to the main gate of Soradoc; it had been smashed in, as if with a battering ram. Cautiously, Karazin stepped inside; a horrific sight met his eyes. The corpses of the entire garrison of Fort Soradoc lay scattered across the ground, left to rot where they'd fallen; their steel armour was ripped and torn as though it was cheap cloth, and their weapons were either broken or missing.

Seeing the corpses, Karazin was simultaneously horrified and relieved; maybe it was just a band of rogue Orcs that had figured out a way to cross the Great River. He'd been worried over nothing; this was a tragedy to be sure, but not on omen of doom. Then, he saw something that chilled his blood like ice. There was a dead Orc in a corner; mangled almost beyond recognition, pierced through with an iron spear and pinned to the ground.

And it was moving.

Karazin stared at the living corpse in pure, abject terror. It was looking at him with a cold, lifeless stare; its dead eyes following his every movement, like a wild beast intent on its prey. Then, with a sickening sucking sound, it pulled itself off the spear holding it to the ground and started shambling slowly toward Karazin; an undead monster who's only thought was to kill, and who could could never be killed.

Seeing it, Karazin was filled a fear so deep, so primal, that it took every scrap of willpower he possessed not to turn and run. Forcefully taking back control of his body from the fear that had paralysed him, Karazin reached into his pack and drew out a tiny glass vial containing a fine white powder; struggling to keep his hand from shaking, he lobbed it at the corpse bearing down on him.

The vial broke on impact and the powder spilled out over the walking corpse; on contact with the air the powder erupted into a blazing inferno, instantly incinerating the monster. Karazin released a tense breath, and stared at the blaze with a blank expression; it was painfully obvious what had happened now. A necromancer had come down from the North; and Karazin had a pretty good idea why Soradoc was their first target.

The undead were the single greatest threat to Wesnoth in the old days; dead bodies conjured to false life by necromancy, they were all but impervious to conventional weapons. The only way to be sure of destroying them was with fire, or powerful magic. To practice necromancy was a crime punishable by death, but that didn't scare those who thought they commanded death.

However, no one had seen a necromancer since the Great Purge; about a century ago Humans, Magi, Elves, Dwarves, and Drakes all joined forces to eradicate all necromancy from Wesnoth. It was the greatest combined movement of the Five Free Races, and it left Wesnoth a much safer and more stable kingdom. Like anything though, there was a sour note; many innocent people were wrongly accused of necromancy, and executed. For almost a hundred years however, Wesnoth enjoyed a time of peace and prosperity thanks to the Great Purge; therefore, the attack on Soradoc troubled Karazin even more.

He turned to leave the fort, to see Conan standing by the broken gate staring at him; and at the bonfire behind him.

"How long have you been there," Karazin asked.

"Long enough to see that thing," the swordsman said grimly. "Let me guess; this spells bad news?"

"The worst," Karazin replied. "I'm sorry, but I'll have to take leave of your company; how much do I owe you?"

Conan shook his head. "I'm not takin' a bloody Copper piece, or lettin' you leave me behind; not until you explain what's goin' on."

Karazin growled. "I don't have time to explain."

"Then make it quick."

Karazin sighed. "Fine then, I'll make it quick. That thing was a dead body raised to unlife by a necromancer using black magic; they can only be really killed by fire or magic, preferably both. Somehow, some necromancer has raised an army of them large enough to take Soradoc. What worries me though, is that they didn't even bother to raise the soldiers they killed; that means they had another reason for attacking Soradoc first, other than gaining more troops."

"What d'you mean?" Conan asked.

Karazin looked the swordsman in the eye. "My guess is, they took out Fort Soradoc because they didn't want to be noticed until it was too late; and they didn't want Wesnothian reinforcements coming down behind them."

"Behind them? What're you..." Conan froze as the realization hit him like a hammer blow.

"Yes," Karazin said. "Whoever this necromancer is, they're planning a full-scale invasion of Wesnoth. I'm willing to bet they have a much bigger army on the other side of the Great River, waiting to cross. They sent a relatively small force, maybe fifty or so, through a secret set of shallows near here to take Soradoc, and then move West to take the Ford of Abez; which is the only viable place for an army that size to cross the river. But first they'll want to make sure to make sure they can't be ambushed from the South while the larger army is crossing, which means..."

"They'll have to take Fort Tath as well," Conan said, catching on. "Tath controls the entire area from Gryphon Mountain to the Ford of Abez; if the necromancer takes Tath, they'll have full access to the Ford."

"And judging from how old these corpses are," Karazin continued, "The attack on Tath is probably about to start; if it hasn't already. And if the capital hasn't realized that Soradoc's been destroyed, there's no way Tath has been warned. The undead will have the element of surprise, and they'll probably attack during the night; it'll be another slaughter. And if that army of undead manages to get a foothold in Wesnothian borders, they'll be almost impossible to stop; by the time the Elves or Dwarves arrive to help, it will all be over."

"Then," Conan said, "There's no hope?"

"Well, I could be wrong about it all."

Conan looked at him. "But are you?"

"I wouldn't count on it," Karazin said. "I usually have a pretty good intuition about these things."

"Then what're we going to do abou' it?" Conan asked.

Karazin looked at him. "What makes you think there's anything we can do?"

"Don't play dumb," the swordsman replied. "You knew exactly what that thing was and how to destroy it, and you clearly had a plan a minute ago; I have a pretty good intuition too, and I can see you're no ordinary traveller. So I repeat; what're we going to do abou' it?"

Karazin sighed. "I knew I shouldn't have let you come with me."

"Then you do have a plan!" Conan said triumphantly.

"Yes, I have a plan," Karazin said, taking another glass vial from his pack; this one filled with a purple gas. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to use this, but it seems I'll have to."

"What's that?" Conan asked. "You're not goin' to set us on fire too, are you?"

Karazin shook his head. "No, I'm not; this is a teleportation spell in a bottle, and it'll take us to Fort Tath in seconds."

"And why haven't I head of this before?" Conan asked.

"If you must know," Karazin said, "Binding a spell to an object is a tricky and time-consuming process; it took me a... great deal of effort to get my hands on these."

If Conan noticed his slip-up, he didn't show it. "Well then, what're you waitin' for? Unless I'm mistaken, time is of the essence here."

"Right," he said, grabbing hold of the swordsman's hand.

Karazin smashed the vial on the ground, and shouted; "Fort Tath!"

The vial shattered, releasing the gas inside; the gas billowed into a purple cloud that covered the two of them completely. They felt a sudden rush of movement, and though they'd been pushed from behind, and then they were back on solid ground again. When the purple smoke cleared, they were standing in front of an entirely different fortress; they had arrived at Fort Tath, but something was wrong.

The front gate was smashed just like the one at Soradoc, and the stench of death was just as heavy in the air. Karazin's heart sank as a sense of deja vu overwhelmed him, and a quick glance through the shattered gate confirmed his suspicions; the fort was filled with corpses, both living and dead. Conan looked at Karazin in despair, and stated the obvious.

"We're too late."


	4. Chapter 3

"We're too late," Conan said.

Karazin shook his head. "They've taken Tath, but the main army couldn't possibly have gotten here yet; at the very least, it'll be full day before the first reinforcements arrive. If we work quickly, that's more than enough time for a heavy cavalry unit to arrive and block them off; and if they can catch the undead army mid-crossing, it'll be like shooting fish in a barrel."

"I thought you said these things couldn't be killed except by magic," Conan said.

Karazin shrugged. "Well, if you destroy their heads they'll stop moving; and that's good enough."

"Alright then, but how are we going to go about getting this heavy cavalry unit?" Conan asked.

"Like this," Karazin said, pulling out a familiar glass vial filled with purple gas. "Dan'Tonk!"

"Oh no you d..." Conan was cut off as the purple smoke enveloped, transporting him to Dan'Tonk; the largest city in Wesnoth, and less than a day's ride to the South on horseback.

Unfortunately, the curiously coloured smoke drew the attention of several nearby undead; wielding an assortment of crude, but effective, axes and swords which looked to be of Orcish manufacture. Karazin drew his own blade and struck first, taking the heads off three of the five living corpses who then fell lifelessly to the ground.

The undead's largest advantage was fear, and the fact that only a blow to the head could kill them; they were neither fast or skillful, being little more than puppets. No match for a seasoned warrior, as long as said warrior knew where to strike; and kept his head about him. As it was, Karazin's desire to survive managed to stave off the paralysing effects of his fear.

That said, Karazin dispatched the other two living corpses with relative ease; fortunately, no others seemed to have noticed him. Opting to avoid facing fifty or so undead at once if at all possible, Karazin sheathed his sword and drew his grappling hooks from his pack; Tath's outer wall was nothing compared to the Wall of Weldyn, and Karazin scaled it easily. He clambered onto the battlements, doing his best not to be seen; he just hoped nobody looked up.

Looking down cautiously at the corpse-covered courtyard, Karazin's eyes were instantly drawn to a lone man standing at the far side; he was dressed in a simple leather tunic and trousers, and he was most definitely alive. From the gnarled wooden staff in his hand, Karazin guessed he was the necromancer behind all of this. And if the necromancer was killed, the undead under his command would crumble to dust.

Karazin took stock of his options; he couldn't just waltz down there and run him through. He thought about going around the battlements until he was behind the necromancer, but he'd be spotted for sure before he could get halfway. If he could just use magic, this would be a lot easier; unfortunately, he was going to have to do this the hard way.

Promising himself that he'd find a good re-curve bow first chance he got, Karazin started running full-tilt along the parapet; forgoing stealth in favour of making the most of the element of surprise. It worked surprisingly well, and he was almost on top of the necromancer before he even realised what was going on. As soon as he was within striking distance, Karazin drew his sword and leapt down at the necromancer; he landed lightly, and immediately lashed out at his target's neck.

Karazin's blow was intercepted by the sword of a nearby corpse, which lost its head for its troubles; Karazin had just enough time to think that he might have been a bit hasty, then he was assaulted by as many walking corpses as could get to him at once. Curiously enough though, they seemed more interested in simply pushing him back than actually killing him. Karazin's blade flashed again and again, taking off two or three heads per swing, but more just kept on coming. Then Karazin felt a sudden, stinging impact in his left side; he was flung several feet before he finally tumbled to a stop on the stony ground.

As soon as he came to a stop, Karazin instinctively rolled to the side to avoid another blast; he was right, and a bolt of black/purple energy struck the ground where he had been. Karazin got to his feet quickly, and held his left side in pain; the bolt of magic had cracked one of his ribs, and the fall had knocked his sword out of his hand.

"Well well," the necromancer said haughtily. "What do we have here? A little spy?"

Karazin didn't answer, but instead made a grab for his sword which was lying on the ground a few feet away; he had barely gone a foot before a bolt of black energy sent it skidding across the ground, well out of reach.

"Now then," the necromancer said, lowering his staff at Karazin. "Answer me; are you a spy?"

Karazin's mind raced at a thousand miles and hour, assessing his options; if he used magic now he could easily beat this poser, but the _she_ would be able to find him. As much as he longed to blast this sorry excuse for a human being into oblivion, that would have to be his last resort; for now, maybe he could talk his way out of it.

"Not a spy," he said. "A scout."

"A scout?" the necromancer said in an amused tone.

"Yes," Karazin continued. "I was sent ahead to gather more accurate information as to your numbers and position; my partner will have relayed that information already. A unit of heavy cavalrymen will be here soon; you've lost. If you surrender now, you'll be promised a fair trial."

The necromancer merely scoffed. "A fair trial, and then a painful execution; I know how these things work, you know. I've seen what they do to those convicted of necromancy, and I have no desire to be burned at the stake! That's why we're doing this; for revenge, and so that necromancy can once again be taught and learned freely. When that happens, immortality will be mere steps away; humanity will rise above the other so-called 'Free Races', and we'll no longer have to maintain this foolish treaty!"

_"So,"_ Karazin thought. _"He's not alone in this; that makes sense, the Great River is so wide they'd have to have at least one person on the other side to maintain the main army while this guy is over here."_

"How noble of you," Karazin said. "But have you forgotten the reason necromancy was banned in the first place?"

The necromancer scoffed again. "That unfounded theory? A lie created by the Mages because they were afraid that humanity would surpass them as well; they were afraid of the power of necromancy, and so they convinced the world it was immoral even to study it. I believe the great Malin Keshar was right, living humans are more important than dead Orcs; and why waste the lives of living men in battle, when you can raise an army of the dead to fight instead? Necromancy is no more immoral than any tool, and it will be the salvation of humanity!"

"I have to admit," Karazin said , gritting his teeth against the pain of his rib, "I never thought about it that way before; 'the salvation of humanity' might be a bit melodramatic, but you certainly make a convincing case. But where does murdering two cities worth of people fit into this plan of yours? You're brutally slaughtering the very people you say you're trying to save!"

"Necessary sacrifices," the necromancer said. "The good of the many outweighs the good of the few."

Karazin scowled. "And that's where your façade of nobility falls apart; there's no such thing as 'necessary sacrifices' when it comes to people's lives."

The necromancer laughed. "You're giving me a lecture on morality? You amuse me; I think I'll keep you alive, Mal Hazael will like you."

"You have a mistaken idea of who is letting who live right now," Karazin said.

The necromancer laughed again. "You see what I mean? You're a riot. Now keep quiet; I have to prepare a suitable welcome for that cavalry unit you mentioned."

The undead began taking up stations around the fort; a handful of archers, rotted away to nothing more than armour-clad skeletons, took up stations above the main gate while other corpses stacked debris against it to block up the gaping hole. When the cavalry arrived, they'd be shot down before they got within ten metres of the gate. Karazin had no intention of letting that happen.

While the necromancer's attention was on his troops, Karazin slowly crept towards his sword; he wanted to move faster, but he knew that if he did he'd be shot before he could reach it. So he painstakingly crawled along, making sure that the necromancer hadn't noticed him, until at last his sword was within arm's reach...

Karazin was flung backwards as his sword erupted in black flames. The necromancer turned around and tutted, as if he were scolding an errant child.

"I see you still have some fight left in you," he said. "Maybe this will change that."

Without another word, the necromancer fired a bolt of black energy at Karazin's sword; when the dust cleared, Karazin saw that his sword had been shattered into a thousand pieces.

Karazin grit his teeth and turned to the necromancer, his cracked rib forgotten; tears starting to form in his eyes.

"That sword was a gift," he said. "From my father. It was the last thing he ever gave me."

The necromancer feigned an apologetic expression. "Oh, I'm so sorry; did that make you sad? Be thankful I only broke your sword."

Karazin stared him in the eyes, and the necromancer took an involuntary step backwards at the intensity of the boy's gaze; it was filled with deep sadness, and deep anger.

"I can see I'll have to beat some respect into you," the necromancer said, trying to regain his confidence.

The necromancer levelled his staff at Karazin, and fired a bolt of black energy at the boy. Karazin didn't even flinch, and simply leaned to the side; the bolt missing him entirely. The necromancer fired another bolt, but Karazin caught it in one hand; if it hurt at all, he didn't show it.

"You're... a Mage?!" the necromancer exclaimed.

"Not just any Mage," Karazin said, his voice dripping with barely restrained rage. "You've forced my hand; now I'll have to kill you quickly."

Karazin closed his hand around the bolt of darkness, compressing and strengthening it; then he extended his hand and fired it back at the necromancer, who just barely manage to avoid it. It hit the stone wall behind him, and blasted a hole clean through it.

"Fire!" the necromancer exclaimed desperately.

The skeletal archers stationed on the wall let loose a volley of arrows, but Karazin deflected them with a blast of magic; he turned back to the necromancer just in time to block another bolt of dark magic, which he casually batted aside with a wave of his hand. Then, knowing that the longer he dragged this out the more of a disadvantage he be at, Karazin formed a glowing blade of magical energy in his right hand and rushed towards the necromancer.

The panicking necromancer fired a blast of magic at Karazin, but the boy slashed through it with contemptuous ease and kept coming. In desperation the necromancer tried to block Karazin's stoke with his staff, but the Mage-boy's ethereal blade cleaved it in half as though it wasn't there; and with that same stroke, the necromancer's head rolled from his shoulders.

"A better fate than burning alive anyway," Karazin said to himself, allowing his Mage-blade to dissipate; there was no need for it any more, the undead crumbled to dust the second he killed their master.

Karazin turned to leave, and instantly felt a pain in his chest; another broken rib maybe. He looked down, and saw a shaft of bone protruding from his body; he stared at it numbly for a second, and then looked up to see a skeletal archer nocking another bone arrow to its bow.

Another arrow thudded into his chest, but Karazin couldn't think clearly enough to do anything about it; it was as though he was getting sleepy, he just couldn't keep his eyes open any more. His legs gave out underneath him, and darkness began to cover the edges of his vision. The last thing he saw was a series of bright flashes of light, and then nothing.


	5. Chapter 4

Karazin's head hurt; it felt like a bunch of bull trolls had done a polka in his skull. Then again, a headache was better than dead any day. Come to think of it, why wasn't he dead? The last thing he remembered was getting shot in the chest. Several times. He could still feel the wounds, but the pain was… dull, as if he was already starting to heal; and the only way that was possible, was if… Oh no.

Karazin opened his eyes and shot up into a sitting position, and instantly regretted every choice he'd ever made that had led to that moment; the pain was… well, it felt like he had been shot in the chest. Several times. Evidently he wasn't completely healed, which meant that he hadn't been out for too long; if he was where he thought he was, then he should've been fully healed in days.

Karazin looked around and, sure enough, he was in a small room with a wooden floor and ceiling, stone-brick walls, and a single window across which cloth drapes were currently drawn to darken the room slightly. The room was sparsely furnished; only containing the bed on which he was currently sitting, a small bedside table right across from where his head had just been, and a couple simple wooden chairs on the other side of the room.

He'd never been in a private ward of the Weldyn medical center, but he was pretty sure this is what they looked like. He was a little surprised that _'she'_ hadn't put him in his old room, but he supposed he injuries must have been so severe that immediate medical attention had been required.

Karazin sighed. "I guess there's no escaping now; _'she'_ has me, and she's not going to let me out of her sight again until…"

His train of thought was interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Are you awake?" came a young, feminine voice from the other side of the door.

"Y-yeah," Karazin said, wincing at the sharp pain it caused between his eyes.

The door opened a crack, then closed abruptly.

"A… are you decent?" asked the voice.

Karazin looked down and realized, to his embarrassment, that he was not.

"Hold on just a second," he told the voice.

Karazin got out of bed and stood up, and was immediately wracked with waves of intense discomfort as his body protested that no, he was not well enough to get up yet thank you very much. Suppressing the pain, he scanned the room for any sort of clothing. Seeing that the bedside table had a pull-out drawer, he opened it and saw, to no small surprise, his old clothes. Pulling them out of the drawer he saw that they'd been freshly washed, and the holes in them had all been sewn back up; they looked better than they had when he'd originally left Weldyn.

Now Karazin was starting to get confused; why would his old clothes be here, and why had such great care been taken to clean and repair them? It's not like they were the only clothes he had, or even the nicest; he'd have expected them to be thrown away, and a new set procured. It didn't add up…

Realizing that the girl, or the person he assumed to be a girl, was still waiting for him to get dressed, he quickly did so; ignoring his aching chest, and the suspicion which was growing in his mind. Maybe all wasn't lost; maybe, somehow, _'she'_ hadn't found him. He had to make sure, and there was only one person in the immediate vicinity who could answer his questions.

"Okay, you can come in," he said.

The door opened, and into the room stepped a girl who couldn't have been more than eighteen; Karazin's own age. She had auburn hair which was tied up in a bun, striking forest-green eyes which were vaguely catlike, and ears which, like Karazin's, tapered to a point at the tips; in all, her elven heritage was even more clear than his own. She was wearing the white, dress-like robes of the White Order; Mages specially trained in the healing arts, and commonly employed as doctors.

"Good to see you're awake," she said. "You were in pretty bad shape when they found you."

"I'd imagine so," Karazin said. "Now then, question one; who's 'they'?"

"A rapid-response team of Seekers," the girl answered, "under orders directly from the High Council. I can't tell you any more than that."

Karazin nodded; Seekers were Mages trained as elite trackers, and masters of teleportation and spatial-warping magic. It would make sense that the Council would send them after him and, in retrospect, he was kind of glad they did.

"Okay then," he said, "Second question; where am I?"

"About three feet in front of me," the girl answered with a cheeky grin. "Why?"

Karazin smiled despite himself. "Very funny, but I'd really appreciate a straight answer."

The girl rolled her eyes. "Okay, fine; you're in Elensefar. More specifically, you're in the emergency ward of the Elensefar medical center; although I'm guessing you probably could've figured that one out on your own."

Karazin shrugged. "Probably. Anyway, question three; how long have I been out?"

"You got here the evening of two days ago," the girl said, "And it's morning now; you slept like a rock for more than a full day. And a good thing too, or you wouldn't have recovered so quickly."

"That's not too long," Karazin muttered to himself. "Alright then," he said, addressing the girl again, "my last question; who knows I'm here aside from you, me, and the Council?"

The girl looked looked thoughtful. "Well, no one really; you were brought in as an anonymous victim of the attack on Fort Tath, and I was assigned to you. I only recognised you once I got a good look at you; you look almost completely different, but I recognised your… well… never mind."

Karazin raised an eyebrow in a quizzical manner. "My… what, exactly?"

The girl sighed in resignation. "Your smell; even after living on the road for I don't know how long, you still smell... different; like the air right after a summer storm. I've never met anyone else who smelled like that, so I knew it was you."

Karazin was completely stunned; she knew him by smell? Who exactly was this girl? She was obviously very familiar with him, but how was that possible; he wasn't exactly the kind of person who people were… familiar with. Plus, he couldn't remember ever meeting her before.

He must have looked just as astonished as he felt, because the girl furrowed her brow in concern.

"Are you okay?" she asked. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Karazin forced his expression back to neutrality. "I'm sorry to have to ask this, but... who exactly are you?"

The girl was stunned for a second before Karazin's words sank in; when she realised what he was saying, she looked as though the words had ripped a hole in her chest.

"You… you really don't remember me?" she asked, almost pleadingly. "Maria, from the Academy? We… we studied together."

Karazin closed his eyes and searched his memories; he could barely remember his time spent studying at the Academy of Alduin, the single largest school of Magic in Wesnoth. Trying to remember anything about his past was like looking through a thick fog; he had to know exactly what he was looking for.

Then, he found something; the girl, Maria, was telling the truth. They had studied together, and had become close friends; that explained why she knew him so well, but he still felt like there was something he couldn't see. Something he was missing…

"I… I remember," Karazin said, calling up as many memories as he could about Maria; and with each one, Maria's image in his mind grew stronger and more defined. "You always wanted to be a Sorcerer, but your parents wanted you to join the White Order instead. You…" he chuckled. "You got me into a lot of trouble with my parents; I remember sneaking up onto the roof one night and watching a meteor shower together. I'd expected to hate the Academy, but you made it almost… fun."

Maria looked relieved, but slightly disappointed at the same time. "Is that all you remember?"

Karazin grinned impishly. "I remember helping you with your homework a lot; especially where chemistry was concerned."

Maria giggled a little. "Yeah, and I saved your butt when you almost failed herbology."

Karazin winced. "I thought we agreed never to speak of that."

Maria laughed. It was a sweet, innocent laugh; almost childlike. Karazin liked they way she laughed; he remembered being, to be honest, a bit of an idiot sometime just to try to make her laugh. Hearing it now, he felt genuinely happy; which was something he hadn't experienced in far, far too long.

"I haven't laughed like that in a while," Maria said once her laughter had stopped. "I've missed you so much, J…"

Before she could finish her sentence, Karazin clamped his hand across her mouth; her eyes widened in surprise, then she slapped his hand away angrily.

"What'd you do that for?" she said, glaring at him.

Karazin sighed. "I'm sorry, I really am; but you can't use my real name."

Maria's expression became one of concern. "But… why not?"

"Because I'm pretty sure there's a hex on it," Karazin said. "As well as other words relating to my… position, if you catch my meaning."

Maria looked like she was struggling to comprehend what he was telling her. "But why? What's going on; I mean, you're the c..."

Once again, Karazin quickly placed his hand across her mouth before she could finish.

"Sorry, again," Karazin said, removing his hand. "But it's really important that you don't use my real name or title; at least for now. Until this all blows over, my name is Karazin Duskwalker; I'm a wandering swordsman from Blackwater Port, nothing more."

Maria sighed. "Alright. And I suppose you can't tell me what this is all about either?"

He shook his head. "No, sorry; I couldn't describe it without triggering the hex. I can't even be sure that I haven't already."

Maria nodded. Hexes were rather nasty pieces of magic which could detect when a certain word was spoken by anyone within a certain radius of the caster; it worked by simultaneously searching for matching sound waves, and a matching mental image which went with it. They were tough to maintain, and weren't always accurate, but it was one of the easiest ways of finding someone if all you knew about them was their name; and 'she' had more than enough manpower at her disposal to investigate any and every time the hex was triggered.

Karazin furrowed his brow in confusion at a sudden realisation; if _'she'_ already had him, then what would be the point in being careful about the hex. So why did he still feel on edge about it…

"Wait a second," he said. "Maria, you said I was brought here anonymously; do you think… does my mother know I'm here?"

Maria shook her head. "No; the council hasn't informed her yet, as far as I know anyway. Which, I have to admit, I found kind of strange..."

Karazin breathed a sigh of relief; suddenly he felt much more at ease. The Council certainly knew it was him, so their failure to inform _'her'_ meant that they were siding with him; or at least, they were reserving judgement until they could give him a formal hearing. In which case…

_"There's still hope,"_ he thought to himself. "_If you can convince even one or two of the council to support you, then the others might be convinced as well."_

And, although he hated to admit it, he knew exactly which two Council members would be the first to trust him.

"I need an audience with the council," Karazin said.

"That'll be fairly easy," Maria said. "They told me to send you in as soon as you were well enough to walk."

Karazin nodded. "Thank you; in that case, I won't keep them waiting."

He took a step towards the door, but Maria put her hand on his shoulder and held him back.

"Now, wait just one minute," she said sternly. "I don't care if you _are_ one of the most talented young Mages in recent history, you just took three arrows to the chest.

Karazin scratched his head. "Really? I only remember there being two arrows..."

"Trust me, there were three; I had to pull them out," Maria said. "You looked like a pincushion; but that's not important! You're not fully healed, and you're not going anywhere."

"And you think you can stop me?" Karazin asked, raising an eyebrow.

Maria smiled smugly. "If someone's chasing you, and they're smart and powerful enough to put a hex out for you, then I'm guessing you can't risk using magic; if that's the case then yes, I think I can. Now then, back to bed with you."

Karazin scowled, but he knew she was right; he needed to rest more, and she was more than capable of making sure he did.

"Yes, _'mother',_" he said sarcastically, walking back over to the bed.

Maria chuckled. "You know I'd love to be _your_ mother, except that then I wouldn't get to…"

Karazin, who was in the process of pulling the sheets over himself, looked at her quizzically.

"Wouldn't get to… what?" he asked curiously.

Maria shook her head and turned to leave. "Nothing," she said, with a touch of sadness in her voice. "Just an old dream I once had."

With that, she closed the door behind her; leaving Karazin to wonder what on Irdya she could've meant by that.

_"Women and their cryptic comments,"_ he thought to himself. _"You might live your whole life with one, and still not understand them one bit."_

He sighed. "If that's the case, then I'm never getting married; things I don't understand frighten me."

_"There are plenty of women you probably should be afraid of,"_ he thought to himself again, "_But Maria isn't one of them; trust me on this one."_

"I hope you're right," he muttered.


End file.
